Remembrance
by Arctic Husky
Summary: To get over a loss is never an easy task. To get over the loss of someone you are no longer supposed to care about is an even greater trial, one that plagues Syrenne and Lowell even into a life of happiness. With their memories and a bit of shared understanding, maybe they can manage it.
1. I: Companionship -present-

After I finished writing Blackout Memory, I immediately wrote another Syrenne/Lowell fic... but after typing it out it felt way too cheesy. I might revisit the idea later. For now, I've written something in a different vein with a focus on Syrenne/Lowell/Dagran friendship. It was meant to be a one-shot, but I decided that splitting it into a multi-chap fic would make it more accessible. The chapters will alternate between present (post-game) and past scenes. Needless to say, there are significant spoilers of the end-game variety in the "present" chapters! The fic could also work if someone read the "past" chapters as stand-alone vignettes. I have everything written up already, just a matter of editing and leaving a few days' time between posting new chapters.**  
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**Remembrance**

_Companionship [present]_

After Syrenne set out the final coaster on the final table, she stood back and looked the room over proudly. It was a modest place, dingy and empty, just one floor with no room for boarders like at Ariela's. She was actually the one doing the renting; it had been a blacksmith's when they first came to Lazulis City, but with the peaceful times that had been achieved there was less demand for weapon and armour specialists. The pub market, however, had a vacancy resulting from word getting out about the occult activities at the Flame and Lizard. That word may or may not have been strategically released by a certain ex-mercenary who was trying to cement a stable life for herself—oh well, they deserved it for housing such monsters anyway.

So when the blacksmith retired and made the ground floor of his building available to rent, Syrenne swooped in. She had been living at Ariela's tavern just as when they had been getting by as mercenaries, only now she was earning the cash to afford it by partaking regularly in arena events. They had added solo tournaments, which meant that Syrenne's participation was not limited to times when she could rally a team of fighters together. It allowed her to keep up payments to the landlord, save up for her ambition to open a pub of her own, and even indulge in some fun nights of drinking to excess (you know, for research and mental preparation). Even though she hadn't put aside quite enough gold to afford the rent the blacksmith was asking for, she persuaded him to let her and her, ah, cohabitant, live there on the cheap while she set things up to open business. Once the establishment was open, they could afford more—that was her hope, in any case. Looking at the empty, lifeless space in front of her, it was a struggle to imagine it full of action and sound. The most people she had seen in the building were her close friends, and though she cared for them, they hardly represented the social atmosphere she was aiming for. Still, even in its barrenness she could feel the potential for something grand. Maybe it was self-centred pride on her part, but it was hers and she had worked hard and it was going to be a milestone in her life. She was allowed to smile having achieved something that would have been so unimaginable not too long ago;

However, whenever she let herself think for a moment, "I'm happy," that feeling was always followed closely by guilt. How can she let herself be happy when there are people who were lost along the way to that happiness? Worse yet, people whose deaths enabled that happiness to begin with... Sometimes when she was alone, Syrenne found herself wondering how things would have been different if they hadn't killed (try as she might to come up with a less harsh word for it, it always came down to killing) Dagran. It wasn't a reasonable thought, of course. They themselves would be dead, that's how different things would be. It was still something that crept into her mind from time to time, less now than it used to, but sometimes.

No one ever really talked about the fact that they had suffered losses alongside the happiness they had gained, but surely the rest of them also questioned if it was really a fair trade-off. Zael probably had it worst, losing both of his mentors in such a vengeful mess, able to openly grieve for one and not the other. And despite Calista never being fond of Count Arganan's intrusion in her life, he was still her uncle and guardian of many years – didn't it hurt to lose him? The rest of the mercenaries mourned Dagran above all, yet none of them admitted it to one another. There was something shameful about missing someone who had done such terrible things, even if that wasn't really the person they missed.

Syrenne missed the Dagran who had always joined her at the bar whether he was itching for a drink or not. He'd sit there and keep an eye on her, offer an ear if she needed to rant, or serve as the voice of reason for those nights she overdid it on the alcohol. When Lowell began travelling with them, they had become a trio, spending the evenings together having a drink or seven. They'd regularly make fools of themselves while Dagran laughed to himself at the sidelines. And when morning came, he could always be relied on to recount the stories of what they had done when they couldn't remember them themselves. Yeah, he would have fit in well at the pub Syrenne was going to open the next day...The idea that it could possibly become the home of regulars like them, reminders of the past, left her anxious. Would seeing friendships like that warm her heart, or make it ache?

The front door rattled as someone opened it. There was only one person it could be, as the bar would be open to the public for the first time the following day. She angled her head towards the door regardless and felt a smile creep across her lips when she saw Lowell walk in. It had become a regular subconscious action whenever she saw him, and every time she would turn away or cover her mouth so that he didn't get cocky about his effect on her. On that evening she brought a hand to her chin, one finger over her lips, and looked around the room as though deep in thought. True, she _had_ been deep in thought, but more the kind that involves a distant stare and not a focused one.

"Hey you," she said flippantly.

Lowell approached her from the side and wrapped her in a tight hug. She folded her arms over his and leaned into him, no longer bothering to conceal her smile. This was the happiness she wondered about most of all. It was the happiness that Dagran's Outsider, the cause of conflict and sorrow, had granted her. Was she allowed to be thankful? Lowell relaxed his hold and dipped down to kiss Syrenne on the forehead. "Gotten everything ready?" he asked.

"Yeah." Syrenne turned to look up at him and her gaze stopped before reaching his eyes. A bandage around his neck. Although no particular scenario emerged in her mind, she made the immediate association: bandages cover wounds, wounds are bad, bandages are bad. She didn't want to deal with wounds anymore—not on him, never again. "What happened?"

"Nothing _happened_."

She reworded the question, her voice stern in response to his evasiveness. "What did you do?"

Lowell just smiled. "You want to take that bandage off? They said it was supposed to breathe."

"Breathe...?" Syrenne echoed. The apprehension had receded; as long as Lowell was offering the truth and not hiding it, there was no need to worry. Where apprehension was lost, curiosity took residence. "Did you get a face implanted in the back of your neck or something?" she asked jokingly. "I might have a problem with that."

"Shallow, shallow..." Lowell teased.

Swatting his chest, Syrenne retorted, "Like you have the right to say that!"

He laughed. "Just take it off already! It isn't a face. I wasn't kidnapped by a madman and used for experiments. Nobody nicked me with an arrow or burned me with a torch. It was intentional." Despite the light-heartedness with which he said it, there was some reservation in those last three words. Syrenne stepped around behind Lowell and tugged at the bandage until she found the starting point to unwind it.

It just took peeling the corner of the bandage enough to show skin for Syrenne to recognize what it was. The edge of a wing etched in a tribal motif was the first thing made visible, then an eye-like marking and a second wing. The skin surrounding the black ink was red and slightly raised, and a little smear of blood hadn't been cleaned off before the bandage was put on. The size, the design, the placement... they were all exact. It was rather haunting.

"Dagran's tattoo..."

So he had been thinking of him, too.


	2. II: Companionship -past-

The characters in _the Last Story_ enable such great banter, I swear one could write a story consisting entirely of dialogue. I really love writing the dynamics between these characters and I think that comes out more in these past sequences. I do hope that anyone who has stumbled upon this story enjoys reading these interactions as much as I enjoy writing them. Here is your first glimpse into the past...

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**Remembrance**

_Companionship [past]_

All new recruits of the mercenary team were subject to scrutiny by the veterans upon their introduction. Syrenne tended to pass judgment with a glance, immediately determining whether they'd be around for a while or if they'd quit before long, and whether they'd be a reliable ally on the battlefield by day or a compelling drinking buddy by night. With the ice mage Dagran brought back to the inn one day, she did the same: another man, she lamented, and he looks a little too clean to be any fun. That opinion didn't solidify the way it usually did, though. From the afternoon when he arrived straight through to the evening, Syrenne's attitude wavered between interest and animosity. In spite of pegging him as proper, even she had to admit that he was rather dishy... And when she found out he came from a noble family, she could forgive any primness on his part if that meant he had money. But oh, she really did hate the stuffiness of nobility... This back-and-forth turmoil continued until she was a few drinks into her nightly visit to the bar, the best time to reach a definite, well thought-out conclusion.

"He's an arse," Syrenne announced confidently as she watched the new mercenary from behind her pint glass. He was standing at the bar, chatting up a girl. His elbow rested on the counter, hand sitting by his drink which was conveniently set down nearer to the girl than to him such that he had to lean close to her. Oh yes, he was definitely an arse.

Dagran sat across the table from Syrenne, rather disinterested in the recruit's behaviour. "Lowell is a competent fighter," he reasoned. "His personal habits shouldn't matter if you're capable of being professional."

Syrenne saw the way his eyes flicked towards her, gauging her reaction. Unfazed by the criticism, she gave a laugh and nudged Dagran's shoulder. "Don't be like that, you smart aleck." Dagran smirked reservedly as he took a sip of his drink. Some subconscious part of her mind processed Dagran's action and prompted her to mirror it, downing a mouthful of her own ale. But for once, booze was unable to hold Syrenne's attention; the action at the bar was somehow more engaging. Not because of Lowell himself—certainly not—but rather the fascination of watching a person try, fail, and recuperate over and over. "He's resilient," Syrenne scoffed. "I'll give you that."

At last Dagran gave in to that twinge of curiosity and looked towards Lowell, just in time to see the lady he was wooing gather up her things and flee. He eyed her as she rushed past on the way to the exit, her brow furrowed and lips curled downward, unmistakably offended. A quick glance to Lowell revealed that he did not understand, not in the slightest, what had gone wrong. Sometimes a person could look intrigued by or even drawn to the challenge of rejections; Lowell, contrarily, appeared as baffled as he'd be if he were slapped in the face just for saying hello. After taking a moment to process his defeat, he joined his new comrades at their table and ordered himself a drink.

"Not used to being so thoroughly rejected, are you?" Dagran asked. It was a simple question with the motive of prying out more details. Having been the one to invite Lowell to join them, Dagran had learned his credentials and basic background, but he knew better than to delve too deeply into people's personal histories during the 'interview' process. Such things, as well as personality traits on the whole, would be revealed in time with trust earned through candid exchanges.

Lowell shook his head slowly, still battling his disbelief. "Not at all. Not like that. Sure, girls might turn me down after some time, but no one here will even look me in the eye!"

With her distraction now close enough that she could multitask, Syrenne gulped down the remainder of her drink and set the glass down audibly. A smug glare on her face, she leaned over the table slightly towards Lowell. "That's because you ain't a noble lad anymore. You'll only be seen as a _mercenary_. Scum of the land." She lifted her glass again and held it out as though to give a toast. "Welcome aboard," she said. When she moved to take a sip of her beer, she was disappointed to be reminded that she had already emptied it. Dagran responded to her dejected reaction by sliding his nearly-full glass towards her, he himself rarely one to drink to excess. Syrenne accepted it gratefully.

Slouching in his seat and staring at the ceiling, Lowell's expression was kept hidden as he let it all sink in. Prepared for whichever answer he would receive, Dagran asked in a lighthearted yet appraising tone, "Can you handle it?"

This was Dagran's test, Syrenne realized. There was one for every mercenary he welcomed to the group, but it was always altered. Before she was able to reflect beyond that, Lowell answered, "Of course." He let himself give a short laugh afterwards, straightening his posture and looking pointedly at Dagran. The two locked stares, Lowell deliberately inviting the younger man to read his sincerity. Dagran would like his gumption, Syrenne knew, and he'd like that Lowell was observant enough to know a test when faced with one. Too bad... guess she'd have to put up with the new mage for a while yet. When Syrenne had joined the company of mercenaries, there had been no question as to whether or not she could stomach the lifestyle. Her test had been on the battlefield—not to measure her skills with a sword, but rather her ability to work together with people she may view condescendingly. Admittedly she hadn't noticed it was a test at the time, but she passed it. When Dagran later asked her about her cooperative behaviour during their mission, she plainly reasoned that it went without saying that she would work with her allies despite any shortcomings she suspected them of having. If she didn't, she'd be the deadweight, wouldn't she? Dagran liked the simplicity of her logic.

"I was just considering a new tactic. I don't like giving up," Lowell made a point to add, the truthfulness in his eyes left exposed to Dagran.

With a satisfied grin and a decisively stated, "Good," Dagran ended his assessment. Lowell's attention turned back to his drink.

Being the only one unsatisfied with this tame, short-lived exchange, Syrenne commented, "What? Is that all there is to it? Just because a man refuses to give up skirt-chasing he's accepted as one of us. Honestly, Dagran, I thought you had better judgment than that." Her complaint had more meat to it than the entire chat between Dagran and Lowell.

"Syrenne." It was Lowell who addressed her. She realized upon hearing her name in his voice that this was the first time he had spoken to her directly. Looking towards him, she was struck by his appearance all over again—damn he was fit, and saying her name like that. Syrenne was concerned that she would just nod and agree with whatever he said next. "We should establish some teamwork," he said. "How about you go over to that pretty lass over there and tell her how incredible I am so she'll give me the time of day, okay?"

Fortunately, Syrenne's sense of logic immediately mended itself. "_Not_ okay!" she hollered. Dagran visibly flinched even though he was smiling at the same time, amused. Lowell himself hardly seemed bothered as he tilted his head to the side, feigning bewilderment. "Why don't you just buy yourself a whore if you're so desperate?"

"I prefer buying ladies with my charm," he explained coolly. "I just need a female accomplice to get the trust started, is all."

"You arse. I can't improve your image when there's nothing good about you!"

"That's enough, Syrenne," Dagran interjected. Although she didn't say anything more or swing a punch like she wanted to, Syrenne fixed a glare on Lowell that made her intentions impossible to misinterpret. Too bad she had so much respect for Dagran. When he scolded her like that, she knew he wasn't doing it for the benefit of the person receiving Syrenne's wrath (who often deserved it), but rather for the sake of maintaining a good image for themselves. Her scenes led to spectators, gathered around and judging them, hindering opportunities for better jobs. It could take years to be counted among the decent mercenaries, and yet one lonely incident could lump them in with the crooked types. Her respect for Dagran and his vision of an honourable future for them all kept her in line when Dagran said, _That's enough._

Pressing her lips tightly shut lest she let loose the unspoken criticism she'd built up, Syrenne stood and headed to the back of the tavern where there was a doorway leading to the inn's bedrooms. She even forgot what was left of her drink, she left in such a hurry. The sounds of chatter at that hour were so loud that they stifled Dagran's footsteps as he followed Syrenne to her room. Only once they passed the threshold between bar and residence did she notice his presence.

No need to question why he'd followed her, Syrenne simply turned on him and vented: "Dammit Dagran, this is the first time you've invited a handsome bloke into the group, not too old, not too young—from a rich family, to boot!—and he's a total womanizer. You just couldn't find a nice chap, could you?"

"It's better this way," he answered, his voice even and somewhat sympathetic. "Relationships within the group would just complicate things."

He was right, of course. He always thought of all possible outcomes, so he'd probably thought out the arguments long beforehand. Syrenne sighed, resigned. She rested her back against the wall and slumped down. "I just think it'd be swell to marry a decent-looking rich man so I wouldn't have to fight for a living."

"But you like fighting, Syrenne." The way that he had his arms crossed made Dagran appear to be giving her a stern lecture. Maybe he was, even though she did most of the talking.

"Yeah..." She stood upright and stretched her arms upwards. "On my own terms, though! I hate that I'm doing it for lazy bastards who can't take care of their own problems."

Dagran moved to Syrenne's side and propped his back against the wall next to her. The ceremonial blade strapped to his back hit the wall first, forcing him to readjust such that it didn't jab into him. "This lifestyle is just temporary anyway." Whenever Dagran spoke of the future he saw for them all, he always stated his vision as fact. Sometimes Syrenne wondered if he was just really skilled at choosing words like some sort of politician, or if he genuinely believed what he was saying.

Chuckling quietly, Syrenne replied, "Right, right. 'Follow me to a better life! Together, we'll move up in the world!' – I've heard your speech before, so stop selling it to me." Even though she mocked him, she had bought into the fantasy some time ago.

"Will do," Dagran said as he pushed off of the wall. He turned to Syrenne again before stepping back into the bar. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he said, "Rest up. We've got a job tomorrow, fetching something for a lazy bastard who can't do it himself." Syrenne laughed heartily and gave Dagran a salute of acknowledgement. He removed his hand from her shoulder but did not leave right away. "One last thing: do try to work well with Lowell."

Syrenne rolled her eyes and turned towards the small corridor lined by doors. "No promises there," she said as she began walking to her room for the night.


	3. III: Loss -present-

A short chapter ahead, but the next one should be up within a few days. I realize that in my writing I'll sometimes reference the character development that comes out of two very missable conversations Zael can have with Syrenne and Lowell, where they discuss their pasts. If you're a fan of the characters and haven't gotten these scenes, you should head to Ariela's Tavern after the Realm of Ascendancy, having spoken to Therius at the lookout but _not_ gone to the Tower of Trials afterwards. Speak to Lowell first and then Syrenne, and you'll get some insight into the both of them - totally missed this on my first playthrough, and I know I'm not the only one! So that's my _Last Story_ tidbit of the day. On to our featured presentation...

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**Remembrance**

_Loss [present]_

Syrenne didn't really say much after she unravelled the bandage. There wasn't much she could say; when it came to Dagran, the appropriate words were impossible to put together. Despite her friends always ribbing her for being tactless, Syrenne recognized a delicate situation when faced with one. Seeing Lowell, rattled yet resistant to conversation, she knew such a situation was at hand. While no one's reconciliation to Dagran's death could truly be called similar, Lowell's was especially unique. As the oldest, the one who had coped with death more than the others, and as someone who had not been present when Dagran was defeated, Lowell had been a sort of neutral party for the others to talk to when they were struggling to carry on after such a loss. Syrenne knew that he had spoken with Zael a lot, using discussion as a means for the younger man to discern whether or not it was acceptable to remember Dagran as a friend. Lowell had also had to be a source of reason during the days just after the battle, when Syrenne was an emotional wreck from witnessing the deaths of the two men she cared the most about. Maybe he'd had talks with Yurick and Mirania too – she wasn't sure.

But being the stable one, the pillar, the rational mind, left Lowell no room to ponder his own feelings. And having not been there when they faced Dagran, he needed to mourn in a way that none of the others did. _I never saw it happen, so it's never felt real to me..._ Syrenne had said those words to Zael on a day she had been feeling particularly retrospective. Not only did Lowell not see Dagran die, he had not seen him in his transformed state, as the wicked thing he had become. And then everyone was going and telling Lowell how he had been revived by the very light that had consumed Dagran. Together they had decided that some part of the Dagran they had known as their leader survived within the red Outsider, and that it was the will of that surviving spirit that saved Lowell's life. That conclusion had been soothing to the rest of them, assurance of Dagran's humanity. For Lowell, they had unwittingly created a conflict. Dagran had become a monster that had to be destroyed; Dagran was the one who gave him a new chance at life. The two images were so contradicting that they could not be reconciled, not without the visual. How could Lowell be expected to grieve when he had no grasp of who it was he was grieving for?

Before Lowell joined the mercenaries on his first mission with them, Dagran had warned him that he would be facing loss often. Don't get attached because some of these people may be gone before you know it, and the only thing remaining to console yourself with is the memories. Lowell nearly sneered to his face. To think that this bloke had the audacity to lecture _him_ about loss. He'd gone through the motions before: bowed his head respectfully while standing next to his mum and dad at his grandfather's coffin, given words of condolence to acquaintances even if he hadn't known the deceased personally... and more than that, felt his very soul ache having watched the deaths of past loves, experienced the melancholy, the fury, the helplessness. Nothing would fret him anymore—he'd been dulled to the sensation of loss.

Yet here he was, sleep frustratingly elusive, wrestling with what he could do to cherish Dagran's memory. Hearing the story of how he had been revived relayed to him, he felt that he owed Dagran something. You can't really pay back someone gone from this world, though; all you can offer them is remembrance.

There were no answers to be found on the ceiling, no matter how long he stared at it. That realization alone failed to silence his thoughts, however, so he looked elsewhere. He turned onto his side towards the woman next to him, who herself was facing the opposite direction. Many minutes had passed since they had gone to bed, both settling in on their own sides with the intention to get in a full night's sleep before the exhausting day ahead of them. She lay unmoving save her deep breaths, the waves of her hair fanned out over her face, and still Lowell was unconvinced that she was asleep. If she didn't push heavy thoughts from her mind with a few drinks or new memories, even Syrenne could be kept awake by her troubles. Lowell propped himself up on an elbow and swept her hair back with his free hand, curious as to whether or not his suspicions were warranted. Her eyes predictably half-open, Syrenne gave the guilty smile of someone who had been caught and was not entirely disappointed with that fact. With unspoken understanding, she curved her body towards him to leave herself receptive to his kiss, his touch, the distraction.


	4. IV: Loss -past-

_The Last Story_ likes throwing in the occasional flashback that just begs for elaboration, including one early scene where the animosity towards mercenaries is highlighted. This second "past" scene that I've written is rooted in that flashback. And oh yes, that means I'm writing something _not_ set in a pub! Crazy. A quick thanks to those who have read and reviewed - I've gotta say, the greatest motivation is feedback.

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**Remembrance**

_Loss [past]_

"We'll go in to steal back the heirloom," Dagran briefed his team as they prepared to start their mission. He waved his arm to indicate who 'we' were: himself, Zael, and three other members of their crew. Just two were left unaccounted for, and that was immediately fixed. "Lowell and Syrenne, you'll stay here on lookout. We don't know how long the bandits will be away from the hideout. If they get here before we're through, we need people who can move quickly and hold their own in close proximity combat. Can I count on you for that?"

"Aye."

"As always."

Only after they had answered in the affirmative did the two mercenaries look to each other, both doubting whether they could really be relied on to work together. For his part, Lowell wasn't worried. He knew he could set aside conflict for the greater good. He just wasn't convinced that he could expect Syrenne to do the same.

They both bemoaned that they were assigned to stay behind. They had been staking the place out for hours before enough of the bandits' grunts cleared out for the mercenaries to make a move forward. Syrenne and Lowell were both anxious to get up and move a little, but instead they were forced back into lookout mode. With their allies out of sight, they settled in behind a fallen tree. The leaves were still mostly full, though some were beginning to dry up and fall. As it was they had enough coverage from anyone who might approach, as well as handy gaps to peer through on occasion. They kept perfectly quiet, listening for any footsteps or conversation from one direction, and hints of a struggle on the part of their allies in the other direction. From the time they had arrived, Lowell had been impressed that Syrenne was even capable of staying silent; he hadn't gotten the impression that she was ever one to keep her mouth shut. In the midst of a job she seemed an entirely different person, very severe. She had the spirit of a warrior in her, and it left Lowell curious as to how she had gotten into this business to start with.

It wasn't long before the sounds of raucous bandits came from the other side of the tree. Stricken by panicked surprise, Syrenne peeked through the branches and then swiftly moved her face close to Lowell's. She hurriedly whispered, "The whole lot of 'em are back. We have to warn the others and pull out."

Lowell nodded. As they had waited, he'd been scanning ahead as far as he could see, planning the best route of stealth they could take should they need to. "Follow me," he murmured and then set out, sneaking from that tree to another, then behind a boulder, a wall, and then a pile of crates, until they reached the entrance the others had taken. They rushed through the corridors, now careless to their visibility and the noise they made—it had become a matter of finding the others, fast.

At the first sound of a skirmish ahead, Syrenne roared, "Retreat! _Now_!"

"Retreat!" Dagran's voice echoed from further within. He took Syrenne seriously, Lowell thought.

Having heard Dagran's response, Syrenne turned on her heel and took a battle stance. Her dominant hand unsheathed one sword, while her other hand was kept at the ready to either seize the other or grapple an attacker. Who would greet them first, their allies or the adversaries making their return? Lowell followed Syrenne's lead and prepared himself for confrontation. The footfalls that grew loudest quicker were those towards the exit, much to their misfortune. The instant Lowell realized this, he began to chant a spell, his magic focused on the bend in the passageway just ahead. Once he saw the shadows hit the wall opposite that unseen hallway, he unleashed a wave of ice that sent the approaching bandits sliding.

Without having to be told, Syrenne unsheathed her second blade and charged forward. All of the bandits who had fallen must stay down—that was the objective until the others caught up. Between the two of them they met success, but a cry of, "Oi! Intruders!" from the direction they were headed warned of challenges ahead.

As Syrenne scouted around the next corner, Dagran, Zael, and only one other mercenary caught up. "We met with trouble," Dagran explained curtly. It was an unnecessary statement; their diminished numbers told that story already. Pressing forward, the corridor was packed with armed bandits. The front entrance, and more importantly from their perspective, the exit, to the hideout was left open behind them, taunting the mercenaries with how close their escape was. The narrowness of the hall did not leave space for all of them to fight hand-to-hand, an observation which allowed them wordlessly organize themselves without delay. Zael, Dagran, and Syrenne moved forward and met the bandits directly while Lowell and the other mercenary, a fire mage, casted spells from a safe distance behind.

It was going well. The bandits were being pushed back to the open outdoors where they would have the opportunity to change formation. Before they reached that threshold, however, Lowell spotted a figure dart past him and aim for his allies. They had been so focused on what was ahead of them that they...! Lowell broke his spell mid-cast and sprinted after the assailant. He grabbed him just short of his dagger burying into Syrenne's back, although the bandit flailed at this sudden restraint and managed to slash the side of Lowell's jaw. Lowell's grip loosened in shock at the sting and the bandit was able to get another slice in before Dagran cut him down.

"Hurry! To the exit!" Dagran commanded. Lowell's vision was being invaded by black splotches, making the exit hard to find. He pressed his hand to his neck and could feel it getting awfully saturated in a matter of seconds.

"There are more of them coming from behind." That was Zael's voice.

An arm wrapped around Lowell, small yet strong, supporting him as his head grew light. "Bugger. This is a disaster," Syrenne's voice swore right next to his ear.

Lowell felt someone move his hand off of his neck, then place it back after covering his wound with some sort of cloth. "Keep the pressure on." It was Dagran, rational even in a time of chaos. "Now you're going to run with us, mate." Never a question of whether or not Lowell _could_, he was ordered to do so.

With Syrenne keeping him balanced and Dagran's makeshift first-aid keeping the bleeding somewhat controlled, he was able to make it outside with the others, but they had to keep moving. Still on the bandits' territory, an agonized scream sounded from behind them. Lowell felt Syrenne's arm tense around him, and even in his delirium he knew that that cry belonged to one of them. Though the conversation was heard in a haze, he recognized the voices of Syrenne (a given), Dagran, and Zael... the other mage had fallen, then.

They kept on forward without him, and when the distance was far enough that they felt safe, the mood shifted from frantic to sullen. The rain falling down on them weighed heavily with the knowledge that they had survived when others had not. Lowell had known this weight before, and it never ceased to twist his heart. Dagran had warned him that allies always changed so he'd best not get attached—that was the disposable lifestyle he wanted anyway, so he'd almost been happy to hear it. Enduring these first losses of people he had barely met, Lowell admitted only to himself that it still hurt.


	5. V: Adaptation -present-

Took a little longer to post this chapter compared to the others, probably because I'm not as satisfied with it. It could be that I just enjoy lighthearted interactions most so I get bored of myself when I get too heavy - fortunately the chapters after this are more to my personal taste. Only two chapters left!

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**Remembrance**

_Adaptation [present]_

When Lowell woke up in the middle of the night, he had an urge to reach for the new marking at the back of his neck. A tacit means of regarding the lost, he guessed, not entirely sure what provoked him to do it. Syrenne stirred at the movement, aware even in unconsciousness that the arm around her had gone missing. A bit apologetic, Lowell draped his arm back over her and hoped that he had not disturbed her sleep. He knew he'd have a hell of a time silencing his thoughts enough again to fall back asleep, and didn't wish that tribulation on her too. Resolved not to coax Syrenne into being a diversion as he had earlier, Lowell simply shut his eyes in an effort to will himself into a state of sleep.

He hadn't even come close when Syrenne moved again. She turned onto her back with a restless sigh, evidently awake. While Lowell was contemplating whether or not to make the fact that he was also awake known, Syrenne sidled out from underneath his arm and out of bed. Through the darkness and bleary eyes, Lowell watched as she fished a couple articles of clothing off of the floor and hastily threw them on before leaving the room, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind her. He waited a few minutes out of consideration, but really, as soon as Syrenne had left, he knew he would be following her. He got up and scoured the floor for his clothes with half-success, finding only his pants. Unmotivated to search any longer, he stepped out of the room through the lone doorway.

The bedroom exited into an area behind the bar that was used for storage, walls lined with shelves of bottles and a couple of kegs beneath the lowest level. There were several boxes of glassware and atmospheric props like candles and table runners, and even some cutlery sets that they would yet have need for. Someday they'd offer pub food that would rival Ariela's famous lunches, Syrenne had promised. Someone would have to expand their cooking skills before then, however, and Lowell insisted that it not be him. Syrenne argued she was a connoisseur of cocktails, which was a full-time area of expertise as was. The debate would be ongoing until they admitted that they would never surpass Ariela anyway, or until they could afford to hire someone with talent to do it for them. It had been a challenge for them to take the planning process seriously at any rate since it seemed like such a distant dream. As Lowell took in his surroundings, he marveled at how a pipedream had become reality in what felt like a fleeting time.

Behind the bottles packed onto one of the shelves, Lowell could vaguely see Syrenne's figure standing in what would be the pub's public territory. There was a space between that shelf and another wall that opened into the front. Lowell silently stepped through and looked towards Syrenne without making his presence known. She stood, arms crossed, before the display of booze bottles she had painstakingly chosen to keep behind the bar, seemingly studying it. Glancing her over, Lowell inferred that he hadn't been able to find his shirt because Syrenne had snatched it for use as an engrossingly leg-revealing nightdress. His admiration ended abruptly when she took a step forward and removed a bottle from the shelf with precious delicacy that better suited handling a decrepit tome from the library. That was enough voyeurism for the night, he decided, an irrepressible urge to tease rising in him.

"We only open for business tomorrow and already you're sneaking from our stock," he criticized from the entryway. He noticed the slight twitch Syrenne's shoulders gave at his unexpected voice and smirked.

Having spared him a glance, Syrenne turned her attention back to the bottle. "I'm allowed – it's mine," she reasoned with the logic of an impudent child. "So you going to complain or you going to join me?" She already knew the answer, only asking out of courtesy. He eyed the bottle she had chosen and pulled two suitable wine glasses out from underneath the bar. As he moved to set them down, Syrenne plucked them from his hand and gave a shooing motion. "Don't steal the barman's job."

"Bar_maid_," Lowell corrected. Syrenne responded with an annoyed groan that he had to laugh at. She always complained that the title 'maid' made a woman sound either domestic or old, neither of which she was willing to consider herself. It was a bit worrying that she was at risk of snapping at any patron who called her barmaid, so Lowell justified his teasing as serving a desensitizing function.

Syrenne unscrewed the cork of the wine bottle and generously filled the two glasses. She slid one towards the clientele's side of the bar, a hint to Lowell that he ought to sit over there. Obediently, he took his place on one of the stools opposite Syrenne. Her display of bartender etiquette ended there as she took a swig of her own drink without waiting for the man in the customer's seat to taste his.

"So," Syrenne began, swirling the stem of her glass, "you might've forgotten, but I once told you I wish you'd stop adding to your scar collection." Her gaze traveled from his face to his chest, where a significant contrast in skin tone marked the site that had been struck by Zesha's magic, where Lowell's life was taken before Dagran gave it back. Her eyes darted back to meet his. "Felt so bereft since you stopped fighting that you paid some bloke to carve up your neck, did you?"

Lowell rested an elbow atop the bar and rubbed the carving in question. If this was the thought preventing her from sleeping, he felt guilty. "You don't think it's different, an intentional scar and a battle scar?" he mused. "You're tattooed too, you know."

Her hand trailed from her glass and moved to her opposite shoulder, squeezing it without thought. Although the tattoos were covered by sleeves, Lowell had become so familiar with them that he could trace their shapes without actually seeing them. "They're battle scars too. A mark of my ranking in the war." Some armies identified their divisions by different armour styles or colours, but her country's branded their roles into them with cheap ink and primitive techniques that led some tattoos to fade and others to blend. A lot of people must have considered it stupid—and she'd admit that objectively speaking it was—but Syrenne had some pride in those scribbles and the meaning behind them, discoloured though they were.

"Then this," Lowell said, turning his head to the side and pointing to the back of his neck, "is a mark of a different war."

Syrenne opened her mouth to object, but stopped herself from saying anything by taking a sip—and then a couple more—of her wine. Criticism would get her nowhere. If she thought about it, she'd be able to understand what he meant: when a person's body is scarred in a conflict, it keeps the memory of that incident alive. Sometimes you don't want to remember and you're stuck with it regardless. Lowell seemed to think differently; he wanted something more to show that he remembered. He had the scar from the memory of sacrificing himself for Syrenne (a grand total of two of those now), but there was no recollection of Dagran on his skin. So he made one himself...or at least, that was how Syrenne came to interpret it as she and Lowell sat in silence, emptying their glasses bit by bit. That conclusion could have been way off, or it could have been spot-on, or it could have been that Lowell himself didn't even think of his actions in such a technical way. She wasn't going ask. She only knew that she had to do something to ease both of their minds or they'd never get to sleep.

After some time passed, Lowell grew restless of the speculation that was obviously going unsaid. "What are we doing, up drinking at this hour?" he wondered aloud, anticipating an answer like 'drowning our sorrows', or 'killing time until the insomnia realizes how boring we are'.

That wasn't the answer he got, however. Syrenne looked thoughtful as she refilled both of their glasses to the brim. Maybe her answer could be the gateway they needed to open to each other. She really hated being careful about choosing words, though. Finally, she decided on two: "We're celebrating."

"Celebrating what...?"


	6. VI: Adaptation -past-

We have reached the final "past" chapter, which means there is only a closing "present" chapter left after this. I still have some imagined Syrenne/Lowell scenarios that I may write in the future. I've built up quite the timeline in my head for those two. But one thing at a time - let's head towards the end of this story first, shall we?

* * *

**Remembrance**

_Adaptation [past]_

The laceration on Lowell's face healed up in time. Without doctors or mages specializing in recovery willing to offer their services to mercenaries, it took longer than necessary and left a very obvious scar. It was the mark that identified him as an outcast, not unlike the tattoo on Dagran's neck that always incited gossip of gangs and the underclass. So far away from his home where reputation was everything, Lowell didn't mind the disparaging stares so much. What disturbed him was the resentment felt by all of the women he met every time they travelled to a new town. He could work flirt his way into the good graces of the ladies in one city, but the moment they changed locations it was aversion anew. The fewer his options, the closer he would become to the women who did acknowledge him. Since attachment had been banished from his lifestyle choices, he knew that a plan needed to be enacted to prevent him from breaking his own rules.

Joining his regular drinking buddies at the bar one night, Lowell had his plan ready. All it needed to be set into motion was one more participant, one who he anticipated being unwilling – but getting her to play along was all part of his scheme. He had tried it hastily once before and had been absolutely denied. That was before he had a proper motive to offer.

He eased into the topic, first sitting down with Syrenne and Dagran as always and splitting a pitcher of local brew with them. Seemingly unprovoked, Lowell reminisced, "Remember the first night we all hit the bar together?"

"Yeah," Syrenne laughed into her pint glass. "You were an idiot then and you're an idiot now."

"Good. Then you won't be surprised if I ask you to speak flatteringly of me to those birds over there," he said while motioning towards two girls at the opposite side of the tavern.

"I refuse." Although she didn't raise her volume as much as she had the first time Lowell attempted to drag her into the accomplice role, Syrenne packed a lot of loathing in those two words.

Lowell rubbed the back of his neck, not out of sheepishness but rather to draw attention to the scar that crossed his jaw and neck and face. "It's just that it's been harder to convince ladies to give me the time of day since I wear the badge of a mercenary on my face." A badge earned by defending Syrenne, a fact she was always mindful of. If the scar ever caused him any shortcomings, Syrenne felt obliged to accommodate them if she could. It was a bit cruel to play on her guilty conscience like that, but Lowell had an objective to reach. "Know what I mean?" he added after a few moments of her neglecting to respond.

"You know bloody well I do," she snapped. With a voice so grudging that it was practically a sigh, Syrenne conceded. "Fine. I'll try. But just know that I hate you."

Giving a dismissive wave of his hand, Lowell said, "Me and every other man."

"Damn right." Syrenne hopped out of her seat and chugged what remained of her drink. She set her empty glass onto the table heavily. "The lot of you are useless..." she muttered before walking over to the pair of women sitting side-by-side at the bar.

The first thing she did upon reaching the bar was order a round of drinks for herself and the two girls. As Lowell perceived it, there were three possible reasons Syrenne could have done this: because she herself wanted a drink, because she was going to bond with her female brethren over the sentiment of men being useless, or because she would drug the drinks as a means of persuasion. None of the options really benefitted Lowell, so he tried not to give them any attention by otherwise distracting himself.

"How is it," he began, turning to Dagran, "that I get so much grief and you're treated like a saint when, verbatim, 'the lot of you are useless'? I may not have visual confirmation, but I'm mostly convinced that you're a man too."

Although he had conspicuously stayed out of that night's quarrelsome exchange, Dagran had been listening. He was always listening, Lowell had come to learn in the time he spent with his fellow mercenaries. During missions this meant he could remain level-headed when snap decisions were to be made; at the pub, it meant he could moderate Syrenne and Lowell's debates when they reached the point where they wanted a third party's opinion or answer. Neither confirming nor denying the speculation Lowell had tacked on after his question, Dagran addressed his curiosity with conviction. "She doesn't hate men," he said. "When she keeps it simple, she just says she hates men. What she really hates is cowardice, regardless of sex. It just so happens that most of the cowards she's met are men."

_Intriguing_, Lowell thought—intriguing that Syrenne had some depth to her, and even more intriguing that Dagran would know such a thing. He played it off with good humour: "Oh, so she's not into lasses, then?"

"Ha ha, no. Why, you interested?" Dagran's mirthful tone matched Lowell's.

Lowell reflected on the notion more than he would ordinarily. Each night that passed without him stealing away with some girl after a few hours at the bar ended in him sticking around longer, passing more hours in the company of Syrenne and Dagran. When he thought fearfully about becoming closer to the women who did acknowledge him, he only thought of Syrenne. With that in mind, he told Dagran, "I wouldn't let myself be. This may come as a shock, but I don't do serious relationships."

With the most exaggerated show of sarcasm that he could muster, Dagran remarked, "Wow, never would have known."

"Right. Well, more surprisingly would be that I fool around because relationships end badly for me."

Dagran didn't say anything right away. The way that Lowell said _badly_ was grave, not a frivolous _badly_ as in he had gotten caught in compromising position with his girlfriend's sister or some such event. By the silence of the other man, Lowell assumed that he had gotten heavier than was welcome in their friendship—it was just a business relationship after all. Company out of convenience. He felt a spiteful smile reach his lips, masking his disillusionment and humiliation. What he deemed the painful truth hit him so suddenly that he had almost come to accept it when Dagran found his words:

"Did you want to talk about it?" Dagran asked earnestly, hesitantly.

Did he? Why allude to it to begin with if he didn't want to elaborate? That instant where he had felt as though he'd crossed the boundary of their bond made him rethink it. "No," he said calmly. He shifted his stare towards Dagran and nearly started when he found the other man's golden eyes were remarkably focused on him. After getting over the initial surprise, Lowell accused in a joking tone, "Stop trying to read me so obviously!"

Dagran laughed softly, the intensity of his attention fading. "You caught me," he conceded with a shrug.

Lowell shook his head with disbelief that he left up to interpretation. The disbelief wasn't at Dagran's audacity as he would have him believe; it was surrender to the fact that he had already been figured out. He should have guessed it from Dagran's commentary on Syrenne's antagonism. Rather than shy away from serious discussion, Dagran welcomed it as an information-gathering opportunity. Surely he was already piecing together Lowell's past from the hints that had been given, storing his observations away in the back of his mind until he could fittingly use them to better his status as leader, just as he had done by analysing Syrenne's attitude problem in order to smooth things within the group. More than that, however, Lowell believed that Dagran's question had been foremost asked as a friend. And it was comforting to know that the invitation was there if the day came when he was ready to talk more about his past.

Playing off of Lowell's insecurities, Dagran declared with half-seriousness, "I rather think Syrenne fancies you, though."

"That's a problem..." Lowell muttered wistfully. Two close friends, one of them a potential love interest... This wasn't the detachment he had aspired to at all.

A third voice interrupted their conversation: "Well, I tried my damndest."

Lowell was startled from his thoughts. He had grown so invested in the conversation he had started from a need for distraction that he'd neglected to observe Syrenne's efforts. And suddenly there she was, back at their table with a replenished mug in hand. She lazily took her seat and went straight to work at consuming her drink. Turning his head quickly towards the bar, Lowell discovered two vacancies at the chairs where the girls had previously been seated. "What did you go and do? You started off so friendly-like, then I get distracted momentarily..." he trailed off, the accusation made.

"You see, this is how it happened," Syrenne began, undeterred by the blame placed on her. By the grand tone that she took on while she told the story, it was apparent that she was ready to make a show of her effort even though they all knew it ended in failure. Dagran and Lowell shared a look of amusement as their friend waved her arms around for drama while she continued speaking. "I'd come up with this story about how you were actually a gentle-spirited artisan even though you look like a barbarian. Of course they asked where the hell a gentle-spirited artisan got a big ol' scar like that, so I had to think on the fly to build up this fantastic character I'd concocted. Settled for saying you got it while rescuing a young lad and his three-legged puppy from bandits." Syrenne hydrated her throat with a gulp of her drink before concluding matter-of-factly, "I don't think they bought it."

Well no kidding they didn't. "You did that on purpose!" Lowell reprimanded her, smiling despite himself.

Syrenne waved his allegation off. "They were idiots anyway."

A fine choice of insult – hadn't she just called Lowell just that earlier? "Then they should have been my perfect match as far as you're concerned."

Syrenne ended the conversation by pointedly ignoring him in favour of her booze. In a plea for some sympathy, some understanding glance that affirmed that Syrenne was a maniacal saboteur, Lowell turned to Dagran. He did get a look of affirmation, though not quite the one he had hoped for. Dagran's restrained smirk and cocked eyebrow instead told him: _I called it. She fancies you._ As slight condolence, he gave Lowell a pat on the back. Sympathy for the night's failure, or an apology for bringing unwanted considerations to light? If things turned sour because of this development, Dagran owed him a pint of beer and a supportive ear, that was for damned sure.


	7. VII: Happiness

Here we are - I've made it to the end. That in itself is quite an accomplishment for me. It feels good to write again! I'll save my thoughts on this chapter itself for the closing note...

* * *

**Remembrance**

_Happiness_

"Celebrating Dagran," she answered as though it were the most obvious thing.

Another question lingered on Lowell's lips, unspoken. Syrenne didn't need to hear it to explain, "I'm not going to stop myself from saying I miss him anymore. And you shouldn't either. It isn't healthy."

"And being up in the middle of the night drinking is?" To be fair, being up in the middle of the night drinking had been a staple of their lives for some time. Especially when Dagran was alive.

Syrenne smiled, wide enough for her teeth to show but somehow reserved. "We're not just _drinking_. We're remembering an old friend over a glass of fine wine. Nothin' wrong with that – it's totally classy."

Locating the class is this scene might have been more of a challenge to Lowell than resolving his psychological crisis. Two ex-mercenaries, following a licentious lifestyle outside of marriage, in a deserted pub in the dead of night, not even fully dressed, drinking booze in an alcoholic's serving size... Was it the fact that the booze was wine that made it classy? Lowell sniggered as he realized that that was precisely how Syrenne's logic worked. "Ah, the pauper's perception of class," he teased.

"Shut up," she barked, her calculating word choice over with. Yeah he was probably right but...shut up. "What do the people of high society do that I don't?"

"Well, for one, they give a toast to whatever they're celebrating _before_ they start drinking..." Lowell motioned to the bottle sitting on the bar. Behind the tinted glass, the wine was level at somewhere around half full, probably a bit less. Syrenne rotated the bottle around such that the label faced Lowell, hiding the wine level from him as though it wasn't already apparent that she had broken such basic etiquette.

She turned to animosity, the best argument she knew, to defend herself. "That's stupid. Fancy folk can babble on for ages before they get to the point."

"Hey, you have some similarities then!"

Syrenne glowered, but didn't speak a word of protest. That ultimately would have confirmed the truth of Lowell's observation. Instead, she returned to the point she had been trying to make all along. "To Dagran!" she announced while she lifted up her glass ceremoniously. "The last thing you did was give me a shot with the handsome rich chap, even if he's an arse, so cheers mate."

Gave her a shot with him even though he had been opposed to it in life, gave back a little happiness to his allies after making them suffer the greatest misery they had known... maybe it was his way of apologizing for his betrayal. It must have been. For Lowell it went beyond that; he had literally given his life back. Hearing Syrenne's toast to Dagran, he could see that the more time he passed thinking about how to interpret and react to Dagran's last act, the less time he was spending actually _living_. Such a waste, it was almost insulting.

As Syrenne moved to take a sip of her wine, Lowell suddenly leaned forward and intercepted her lips in a kiss. Syrenne's hand froze clumsily and caused her drink to overflow onto her wrist and the bar's countertop. Neither pulling away nor returning Lowell's show of affection, she looked hopelessly at the pool of wine below her and whined, "You're making me waste alcohol!"

Lowell grinned and kissed the corner of her mouth before pulling back. "That's what you get for cheering me up." He looked down at the wasted alcohol, a pool of red that partially blended in with the bar's mahogany surface. Drawing his finger idly across the spilled wine, he asked, "Shouldn't you be more upset about the pricey new bar?"

"Shouldn't _you_ know my priorities better than that?" Syrenne asked in return. Despite denying any truth to Lowell's question, she immediately searched for a cloth napkin behind the bar and soaked up the spill, including the wine that had fallen onto her skin. Lowell took a different approach to cleaning the bit of alcohol that clung to his finger, opting to lick it off shamelessly.

"You're right..." he conceded, and then counted off Syrenne's known priorities: "Alcohol is the highest, then your precious pub, and then me." There was a short but deliberate pause before Lowell added with a roguish smirk, "Maybe."

With a flick of her wrist that came on reflex, Syrenne whacked him with the handkerchief. The game of provocation and response was constant between them so it couldn't be helped, even if she would have preferred to say that his list of priorities was out of order. Of course he was highest.

"Knock it off, you... I'm taking away your customer privileges. Now get over here."

Once again Lowell obeyed Syrenne's command and moved to the other side of the bar. Her arms were already open when he got there, ready to envelop him up in a hug that said the things that she wouldn't._ I'd pick you over anything any day. This life we have together is a happy one, and I think that that's okay... We're allowed to be happy. We should be happy._ Lowell let her wrap her arms around him in comfort. Really, she had already achieved as much with her clumsy words.

As Syrenne stood with her face against Lowell's chest, their arms knotted gracelessly yet securely around each other, a passing thought caught her attention. "We never actually drank to celebrate Dagran."

"Mm... I think the message got through anyway."

To clink wine glasses together and take a sip was sheer symbolism, a fleeting thing. They were going to do more than that. They were going to make sure that they did not waste the chance that they had been given. To take the happiness that they were handed and savour it to its fullest... that was what they would do. It was the only worthy thing they could do to properly honour their memory of Dagran.

* * *

I have a problem with happy endings when I'm the one who writes them. With other people's works, I'll think: aww, how sweet. With my works, all I can think is: this is so corny! Ah well, hopefully readers will have the former reaction. And I got to lace some good ol' banter in there in any case. Thank you to those who have seen this story all the way through - your support has definitely been appreciated! There are still other Syrenne/Lowell scenarios camping in my mind, so with any luck I'll contribute more to this fandom in the future.


End file.
